


No Grave

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here is what Locus told them: Grif, Simmons, Caboose and Donut are dead.</p><p>Wash isn't the only one hurting. </p><p>(Based off "Didn't Your Mother Ever Tell You")</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Grave

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Didn't Your Mother Ever Tell You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470572) by [ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/pseuds/ephemeraltea). 



> Tea inspired this. Their fic is fantastic and I recommend you all give it a read.

Wash finds Sarge in his room.

He doesn’t leave there, not much, these days. Outside training and practice, Sarge is cornered there at all hours, stuck in a small room with nothing but his stash of illegal booze and his own memory. Wash has no intentions of visiting, he has nothing left in him to even attempt to be the responsible one, but Donut forces his hand with one word and the memory of his body crumpling to the ground.

“Please.”

And that’s what does it. That’s what forces Wash into that tiny room where Sarge is sitting at a desk nursing a bottle of gin. He looks terrible, unshaven and older than ever, and if Wash wasn’t feeling so numb, he probably could force himself to give a damn. As he closes the door behind him, Sarge looks up and picks up another bottle to place on the desk.

“All yours.”

Wash considers refusing but then he remembers the feeling of wanting to crawl out of his own skin, the marks on his arms, Caboose whimpering from a bullet wound to the stomach and Tucker’s hollow eyes flickered with blood. And he decides he could use feeling a little more numb.

They are there for an hour before they talk of anything meaningful.

“They weren’t supposed to die,” Sarge says, and for the first time all evening, Wash actually manages to look at him. Really look at him. Look at this man he held in such contempt, such ire, and see the devastation there in his sunken eyes and alcohol laced breath. “They were supposed to survive this. Survive me.” Sarge reaches for his bottle and takes another long sip. It had to burn going down, and for a second, Wash wonders if he wants to feel like that. Like he’s burning from the inside.

“They were supposed to get married, you know,” Sarge says as he slams down the bottle. The gesture’s force is mostly due to gravity, which keeps the glass from shattering. In these weeks, Sarge has lost muscle quicker than Wash thought possible. “Those idiots. Found the ring in Simmons’ sock drawer. I don’t know where the fuck he got it.” Sarge looks into the mouth of the bottle. Breathes out. “Didn’t have the chance to give him shit about it.” He snorted. “Marrying Grif of all people.” There was a beat of silence and he sighed. “They would have been happy.”

Wash doesn’t know what to say. In the gaping hole of losing his own friends (and Tucker, God, Tucker) the idea of everyone else’s losses was impossible to conceive. Just phantom ideas of lost friends. Now Wash could see the truth up close. This was not a man mourning his soldiers; this was a man mourning his sons.

Wash considers saying something, some sort of platitude. One comes to his head, one from the memory of Epsilon and a conversation with a blonde woman who smiled like the sun.

“They were together.”

Sarge looks at him for a second. Breathes in. Out.

“They’re dead,” he says at last. “There's nothing more alone than that.”

Wash thinks of blonde hair and the whisper of a name, and considers the fact that he might be right.

 


End file.
